


Viva la Pluto!

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [14]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond misses Q, Established Relationship, James Bond is a certified drama queen, M/M, Porn, Q is bitter about Pluto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9111220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: The thing is, Q is very bitter about Pluto. Bond found that out by being subjected to angry rants and then made a semi-willing member of the Viva la Pluto association, which apparently is an actual thing. Bond thinks. He’s not a hundred percent sure.-In which a mission shows no signs of ending and Bond is bitter about missing Q's birthday and thinks too much. Also, Q's favourite t-shirt must be protected at all costs.





	

* * *

Nowadays Bond’s mornings at home usually consist of either a run or sleeping in because he’s sleeping off a jetlag and/or minor injuries, or because Q isn’t going in early and Bond definitely isn’t going to waste a morning that he could spend dozing in bed with a warm Q in his arms. Saturdays are his favourite - Q’s day off, usually started in an unhurried fashion, sometimes with morning sex.

This Saturday is a bit if a disappointment, because mornings sex is not an option, and because Bond has to leave Q for a bit - he’s supposed to deliver his after action report, and he has to do it personally due to the sensitive nature of the mission described in the paperwork. Moneypenny unhelpfully mentioned it’s his fault in the first place for putting it off until the actual deadline. Q wasn’t any better, ruthlessly smirking and telling Bond he’ll just have to hand-deliver his report then. At least there’s the consolation that Bond will make it back in time for lunch with Q. Perhaps they’ll order take-away and eat it on the sofa, safe from the bleak, grey drizzle and cold outside. And perhaps they’ll follow it with some lazy afternoon sex. It’s a nice incentive to go get his job done quickly and come back right away.

The shower stops running just as Bond is doing his tie in the bedroom; some muffled rattling and shuffling, and Q pads out of the bathroom, clad only in loose-fitting boxer shorts, vibrantly blue socks (as per Saturday) and a t-shirt with a picture of Pluto and the phrase ‘Viva la Pluto!’ in large font. Bond can’t resist pulling him close and kissing him, long and slow.

He’s beautiful. His hair is still damp, a few strands curled a bit more than usually because of it, the glasses perched smart and sexy on his nose, his eyes glinting green and brimming with intelligence. Bond is nothing short of bewitched.

“You’re gorgeous,” he hums, plain and sincere.

The faintest flush skims over Q’s cheeks and he clears his throat.

“Yes, well. I’m still not letting you start anything,” he says, pert tone trying to mask a moment of bashfulness.

Bond smirks and moves his hands down over Q’s arse just to be spiteful and kisses him briefly again before releasing him, heading off to pack up the after action report.

Q glances after him.

“And for the record, you’re not so bad yourself,” he smirks.

Bond heads out into the drizzle with a spring in his step and a small, pleased smile in the corners of his lips.

* * *

A week later Bond is in Nicaragua, having just checked into a hotel room precisely one floor above the mark he’s supposed to be investigating. The suite is spacious enough, luxurious without ostentation, dominated by creamy white and wood accents and filled with late morning sunlight.

Q would like it, Bond thinks, dropping his travel bag on the bed - he likes sunlight and brightness. That time when Bond had coaxed him out to join him on a mission in Malta (which had been more like a honeymoon than an actual mission, hardly any difficulties at all and plenty of free time to enjoy Q’s company, sightseeing, and some outstanding sex), Q had enjoyed himself thoroughly, smiling in the rich sunlight, being generous with kisses in public, and gaining a lovely tan.

He unzips his bag and then unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it, planning on changing before the first round of scouting the mark. He reaches for a less formal shirt, but as he pulls it out, it comes out dragging something else along. A soft, dark t-shirt that sends a pulse of surprised and amused recognition through Bond’s chest.

“How did you get here,” he murmurs, separating the two garments, and straightening out Q’s happily familiar ‘Viva la Pluto!’ t-shirt. It must have got tangled among his clothes and he stashed it into his bag without noticing.

He smiles, quiet warmth in his chest as he holds up the shirt, eyes travelling over the jubilant proclamation printed in big font, and then he thinks, what the hell. He pulls the shirt on and looks at himself in the mirror.

The shirt actually sits well on him across the shoulders, but the fabric stretches over his chest and around his biceps. Snorting at his own idiocy and the rather remarkable picture he makes, he takes the shirt off and caringly smoothes it out. Then indulges himself and brings it to his face, burying his nose in the soft, washed-out fabric.

It smells like Q and their laundry detergent back home, and Bond doesn’t feel like chastising himself for his sentimentality. No one can see him anyway. He takes one more breath, letting the echo of Q’s scent linger, filling him for a moment with a strange sense of being in two places at once (here and back home, wrapping his arms around Q’s waist and playfully keeping him in bed when the boffin tries to get up in the morning), and then he meticulously folds the shirt in an ideally even way Q never cares to achieve and places it back inside the bag.

He pulls on his own shirt, pushes the bag under the bed, snatches his keycard, and leaves the room.

Later that day, as it nears on 11pm, he sends the crop of his work to Q - a few quickly photographed faces and an enigmatic name to run (most likely an obscure company serving as a front for some evil machinations, as is usually the case).

“ _You’ll want to keep an eye on Mr Villiger_ ,” Q’s smooth voice talks in Bond’s ear while he leans out the window and looks out into the warm, earthily smelling night. The canopy of a nearby tree-covered hill rustles softly on a breeze, while a few hotel guests laugh on the patio below, echoes of their voices carrying in the night. “ _Swiss, with a lot more money than he should have... owns a cargo shipping company operating in the Caribbean, all of which is a red flag if I ever saw one... Oh, look at this, his grandfather ran a Swiss bank during World War II_. _That’s just charming._ ”

“The Swiss,” Bond wrinkles his nose in playful disapproval and enjoys Q’s huff of amusement. He can hear a faint pop of what sounds like a takeaway box being opened, and then a subtle sound of Q chewing. Good, at least he’s eating. “Thanks, Q.”

“ _Mhm. The name you gave me is not a company, by the way, it’s the name of a cargo ship, but it doesn’t belong to Villiger’s company. Actually, it doesn’t seem to exist at all, but it comes up a few times in Borga’s emails with Villiger. I’ll keep working on it_.”

“Well, wouldn’t want to interfere with your nutrition time.”

“ _Kind of you_ ,” Q says dryly. There’s a click on the line, and Bond knows their conversation is private now. “ _You did rather leave me to fend for myself_ ,” he accuses in that wry, playful way of his, and Bond smiles. Cooking for Q is hardly unwelcome.

A stifled yawn prompts him to remember the existence of time zones, and a quick calculation makes him cringe.

“You should be sleeping,” he says gruffly, thinking about Q perched in the greyish light of Q-Branch, cartoonishly dark circles under his eyes, practically alone at a time when he should be sound asleep in bed.

“ _I’m fine, I took a nap. 002 got into a right mess so I needed to stay up anyway.”_

Bond makes a mental note to maim 002 when they see each other again. Q tries to hide another yawn, but Bond catches it right away.

“Go home, Q. Get some bloody sleep.”

“ _Hm_ ,” noncommittal enough to still be stubborn, but Bond knows he’s winning. “ _Provided you don’t blow something up and wake me up with a furious phone call from Mallory about it_.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Bond promises solemnly.

“ _That’s what worries me. Alright then, you go and get some sleep too. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”_

“Good night, Q.”

Just before he goes to bed, he sends Q a photo of the t-shirt along with the confession of inadvertently bringing it along on the trip. Q responds with a texted threat of bodily harm should Bond not bring it back intact. Smiling and filled with fondness by the message, Bond has some rather excellent sleep.

* * *

The trail takes him to the white beaches of Martinique, crowded even at this time of year, where he spends five days getting a tan and locating and then investigating his new target. Q’s voice in his ear supplies information and guides him through a maze of cargo containers while he holds his gun at the ready, playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek with his target’s right-hand woman.

A car chase and three bodies later he’s on his way to French Guiana, following a new lead. The bag with Q’s shirt in it is a touch beaten up but safely stashed in the overhead compartment, and when Bond lands Q snidely comments he should put his clothes in Bond’s travel bags more often, as it seems to motivate him to look after them properly. Bond wouldn’t object to finding Q’s flamboyantly yellow boxer briefs (reserved for Fridays) in his luggage.

He smiles, pulling the shirt out of the bag again and smoothing it out on yet another anonymous hotel bed he’ll be sleeping in. The image of Pluto looks back at him, the large font irresistibly drawing his gaze, inevitably making him smile - just like Q. The thing is, Q is very bitter about Pluto. Bond found that out by being subjected to angry rants and then made a semi-willing member of the Viva la Pluto association, which apparently is an actual thing. Bond thinks. He’s not a hundred percent sure.

He remembers the solar system sticker (featuring Pluto) stuck decoratively somewhere in the R&D. From so far away, MI6 seems small, a tiny speck in a city miles away. But it isn’t small, its range is far greater than its size. Likewise, Q is not small - he spans, great and limitless, across the digital eternity, nigh-omnipotent in this intangible realm. But in the physical sense he’s not small either. He’s of average height, and while he’s slim, he exudes inescapable gravity, something that makes people linger and be drawn in: once they notice him, they’re trapped in his presence. He’s a little bit like M - _their_ M - in this way - against physicality, he’s larger than any room he’s in.

But for all that pull and gravity and ensnaring attraction, there is something untouchable about Q. He lingers just out of reach, carefully composed and kept in check, with eloquent eyes and mouth, a faint sense of caution buzzing about him when people think of touching him. They almost never do. There is something about Q that keeps them at bay.

Bond should know. He craved intensely to touch Q since the moment they first met, but there was something that warned him off it, something intimidating about Q and his waspish temperament and the benign smiles veiling an intangible power. And then, at some point at last, amidst flirting and genuine affection spurring on, he felt invited to touch. And he’s been addicted to touching Q ever since, relishing in the ease and openness with which Q allows the touches and deals out touches of his own.

But for everyone else, he’s still out of reach. Pluto, spanning impossible journeys and travelling further than anyone else, regal in a cold, incomprehensible realm of impossibilities. Bringer of death, too - Q’s body count is higher than Bond’s albeit without the gruesome, bloodied directness that Bond is burdened with.

Bond definitely doesn’t think Q identifies with Pluto, not for one moment. But the vague similarity amuses Bond for a moment, so he indulges as he brushes his teeth, trying to stave off moroseness at the fact that he yet again won’t be spending the night with Q. Unprofessional, yes, but throughout his entire espionage career Bond doubts anyone could accuse him of being professional.

So, since he’s being unprofessional already, he pushes the earpiece back in and activates it, waiting for Q to pick up.

“ _Yes, 007?”_ Q’s voice is delectably aloof, bringing a mischievous grin out on Bond’s face practically involuntarily.

“Q,” he purrs. “Just checking in to say your shirt is still intact,” he says, not even attempting at any pretence of it being anything other than a purely personal conversation.

There’s no click, which tells him Q picked up without recording the call in the first place. Such a clever boffin, always one step ahead of him.

“ _Good_ ,” Q says primly. “ _I’ll have it out on your hide if there’s even one rip in it_.”

“Promise?” Bond grins, because he’s rather a fan of Q punishing him.

Q’s sigh is meant to be exasperated, but Bond can hear the fondness in it. He closes his eyes for a moment and imagines Q beside him, burrowed in the sheets, warm and loved, perfectly within reach.

“ _Trust me, you won’t be pleased if I don’t get it back_ ,” Q says a little bit snidely, but the twinge of seriousness makes Bond’s eyes flutter open.

“I’ll bring it back, I promise,” he rumbles softly, trying to soothe the day’s stress he can hear tightening Q’s voice. He knows Q currently has two other agents out in the field besides Bond, and one of them is still 002 who is a complete dick.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Q says after a brief pause, a small sigh tailing the words.

Bond should let Q go: Q is tired and has work to do with no way of knowing when - or if - he’ll go home. But Bond is never more selfish than when away from Q and with nothing to keep him busy.

“Which one is perihelion and which is aphelion again?” he can never remember, and it seems appropriate to ask this now, when well over 6000 kilometres away from Q.

“ _Perihelion is the point in a planet’s orbit when it’s closest to the sun. Aphelion is the farthest,”_ Q reminds him, voice smoothly rounded over the vowels and confidently sharp over the consonants, and Bond lets his eyes slide closed again.

“Mmm. Q, screw 002 and get some rest.”

“ _I’d rather screw you, cheers.”_

“I’ll be happy to oblige, as soon as I get out of here. So drop 002 so you can get some rest and come up with a way to get me home soon.”

A tired but amused puff of air. Bond smiles into it, eyes still shut. It feels closer that way.

“ _I’ll get some rest when he’s safe. I look after all of you, you know.”_

“I know,” Bond rumbles, and then says nothing, because he does know. He’s been saved by Q and he’s seen Q work himself ruthlessly when saving other agents, getting them through mazes and gunfire with their lives.

Q stays on for him for a while, just typing away and murmuring commands to his minions, and Bond finds himself soothed by that, but also resentful that he isn’t there, on Q’s sofa, taking a nap and making everyone nervous because of it. Still, it could be worse - Google tells him the farthest city from London is New Zealand’s Dunedin, a hefty 19 000 kilometres away. An aphelion if Bond ever saw one.

* * *

Q lingers, half a world away but close in his ear when Bond tails his new mark through a chock-full, busy train station with numerous stairs leading underground. He follows Q’s directions, sparing a glance at a security camera - Q sees everything, and even when the mark disappears from Bond’s line of sight, he follows the instructions with blind faith, slipping underground and soon finding his target there.

Four days and yet another unexpected turn of events later, Bond is beginning to hate this mission. Complications keep arising, new faces keep popping up, plot tangles worse than in an over-thought paperback thriller, and he ends up in Argentina, the desert remorselessly baked and arid when Bond checks into yet another hotel and then sneaks about after his new marks. When he finally comes back to his room to wash up and get some goddamned rest, he can feel his bones ache with adrenaline he didn’t get to spend today. He’s irritable and frustrated and unable to take it out on anything - or anyone. The mission keeps prolonging itself and he keeps anticipating its end only to have it put off yet further into the future, and it’s fucking exhausting. Especially now that he has an actual home and someone in it to come back to. Someone he _wants_ to come back to.

He’s just given Q his report and lingers in silence for a bit, the awning over his room’s balcony providing shade but no relief.

“I miss you,” Bond says petulantly, propping his chin on his wrists crossed over the balustrade.

A beat of silence. He can hear Q’s (satisfyingly brief) struggle with professionalism happening in the cool dungeons of Q-Branch half a world away.

“ _I know. I miss you too_ ,” it’s warm and close and right in his ear, but it’s definitely not enough and that makes him feel like the grouchy old man Q sometimes teases him about being.

He looks out into the sunburnt landscape, and stews in silence for a little more.

Q’s birthday is the day after tomorrow. Bond won’t be back in time, even if he pulls one of those ‘stunts’ that cause Mallory’s eyelid to twitch while dressing him down when all is said and done. (The upside of it is that when Q is done with his own dressing down, they usually have a rather spectacular shag, often enough still in Q’s office. Not the best reinforcement method if Q means to adjust Bond’s behaviour, but Bond certainly isn’t going to point that out.)

Neither he nor Q are particularly celebratory people - they don’t really do Christmas (perhaps gifts, if there’s an opportunity), and they’d once slept right through a New Year, actually waking up on 2nd January because Bond had come back from an exhausting mission and Q had been working for 49 hours straight. More often than not they’re apart on various holidays, and they don’t matter all that much to them.

But still, Bond had thought he would be home by Q’s birthday, and now that he knows he won’t, he feels rather let down.

Their birthdays are close together, both of them born in the cold, depressingly sleety period of indecision between winter and spring. Tail end of February and the middle of March - it’s not really proper winter anymore, but it definitely isn’t fucking spring. Q goes first, which is irritating, because it means that as soon as he patches their age gap up a little bit, Bond has his birthday mere weeks later and ruins it.

“I had plans,” Bond mutters sulkily.

Q puffs a soft, affectionate sigh, and Bond pretends it doesn’t make him feel just a little bit better.

“ _It’s fine, we can do it some other time. And cheer up, who knows, maybe we’ll wind up doing it on my actual birthday_ ,” Q jokes, carefree.

Because Q doesn’t know the actual day he was born - as an infant, he was dropped off anonymously on the doorstep of a group home (he calls himself a ‘truly Dickensian orphan’), and his birth date got narrowed down to a week, so the group home people picked a day at random, within that timeframe. Q thinks it’s funny, if he thinks about it at all. Bond sort of wants to find it grotesque, but he doesn’t quite manage because of course, _of course_ Q’s actual birthday would be a mystery. Everything about the man was redacted, already from birth. Amazing.

Bond flicks a hateful look about the landscape. He’d much rather be in London’s cold rain, with Q by his side and the light but pleasant plans still a possibility.

“They were nice plans,” he’s not done sulking yet.

“ _James, it’s fine, love_ ,” a term of affection - Q must really miss him too. “ _We can do it when you’re back, or we can do something else if you’d like. I’m fine, honest. Eve promised me the big box of Maltesers and another one of Quality Street. I’ll even be generous and leave you some toffee pennies_ ,” they’re Bond’s favourite and Q always bitches at him for picking them all out as soon as a box appears at home, and sometimes even _before_ the box crosses the threshold.

“Wanted to spoil you,” Bond complains.

“ _Oh, you will,”_ Q’s light-heartedly haughty tone sparks a bit of life back into Bond’s rapidly shrivelling soul. “ _Rest assured I’ll make sure you spoil me thoroughly. And then, a few weeks later, I get to spoil you_.”

“Please, darling, don’t ruin the mood,” Bond is only half genuine. Turning a year older had got simultaneously less and more bearable for being with Q.

“ _I’ve got plans too, you know_ ,” Q’s voice is a silky promise hummed nonchalantly into his mug of Earl Grey, and something inside Bond thrums at the mental image of Q seated at his desk, hiding his dirty smirk in his tea.

“At this rate I might not get back in time for those either,” he says, because he’s not done grouching.

“ _Oh, I’m sure we can manage if we both put our backs into it.”_

That makes things a bit better, Bond has to concede. Still, when his day winds down and it’s time to sleep before what Q called ‘an inhumanely early start’ tomorrow, the frustration still gnaws at him, and he pulls the t-shirt out of the bag again. He’s very pathetic, he knows, but he just doesn’t care. He’s tired, long overdue for the trip home, and he misses Q like a sick dog. He crawls into bed, tucking the shirt close to his chest, and heaves a deep sigh, catching Q’s calming scent in the fabric.

He sleeps with the shirt like a child with a security blanket all through the night.

* * *

Bond drives through a hail of bullets and zigzags his way through five enemy cars bearing down at him from the opposite direction. Having dispatched the head of yet another sinister organisation, he went back to his hotel to snatch his bag, because at this point bringing back Q’s shirt is much more than a playful sentiment. He isn’t sure what it is, exactly, but he knows he has to bring it back.

When Bond finally touches down on home soil, he’s exhausted, jet-lagged, and badly in need of a shower to wash the desert dust out of his hair and possibly take care of a scrape or two. A taxi drive from the airport later, he squints a little under the cool, fluorescent lighting of Q-Branch as he walks in; the bag in his hand is dirty and tattered, but he nonetheless delivers it with pride and a sense of accomplishment. Q’s favourite shirt is intact inside.

Q, however, is nowhere in sight. Bond stalks about Q-Branch like a shark, fishing for his boffin in between the pillars and tables laden with equipment, and eventually settles on cornering one of the minions to demand information.

“Er, he’s gone into a meeting,” his victim squeaks, nervously glancing down at the bag hanging from Bond’s grip like he suspects there’s a severed head inside.

“I see. When will he be out?” the calm in Bond’s voice doesn’t seem to relax the minion.

“I, er, I don’t know. He’s meeting with the budgeting people and a few other Branch Heads and-”

“007, quit terrorising my staff, please,” Q sweeps in, his stride as coolly imperious as his voice, and Bond turns, drawn irresistibly into Q’s orbit again; the minion snatches his chance and scurries away.

“Q,” is all Bond says, slowly, smiling a little salaciously and sweeping his eyes up and down his form in a blatant once-over because Q is wearing a suit.

A delicious, almost entirely professional suit, tailored to fit his graceful form impeccably, and square-patterned in intriguing shades of dark, nearly-black violet. Really, Bond feels a little as though it’s _his_ birthday. He watches Q approach, a pleasant tingling inside his chest in pure anticipation. He never stops feeling drawn to Q, from the moment they’d met, and it’s equal parts thrilling and somehow reassuring at this point. A familiar sense of inescapable gravity he has no desire whatsoever to fight.

“Ah, 007,” Mallory walks in, much too jovial for having just gone out of a meeting at half past 7pm. “Good to see you back in one piece. Dreadful mission, that. Much longer than we’d expected, but you pulled through well.”

“Sir,” Bond drawls succinctly, standing close enough to Q to not be entirely professional and to signal that he wants to do quite private things to his Quartermaster soon, so it would be in everyone’s best interest if Mallory had left.

Bureaucrat or not, Mallory still works in intelligence and catches this message well enough. He’s also decent enough to go with it.

“Well, welcome back, 007. Get some rest. And Q, go home. Gentlemen,” he nods and takes off, with the energy of someone who thrives in meetings.

Bond smiles and looks at Q whose green eyes flash to him, playful behind his glasses, a small smile fitting easily with his prim demeanour.

“You smell,” Q tells him kindly.

“Oh, my apologies. I’d broken a bit of a sweat diving in front of bullets to snatch your precious shirt into safety,” he lifts the bag slightly, drawing Q’s eyes to it for a moment.

“Well, you’re the one who took it and put it in danger in the first place. Seems only right.”

“Cruel. I like the suit,” Bond gives Q a considerably dirtier once-over than the one before.

“Mmm,” some weariness creeps into Q’s voice, and his nose crinkles in distaste. “I was stuck in that bloody meeting for almost four hours. I feel like I need a shower as much as you do.”

Bond says something clever about being ecological and saving water by showering together, and they blessedly head home.

It feels good to step into the familiar space of their shared flat, sinking into its safety and comfort. Just shucking his battered clothes in the hall soothes most of the adrenaline out of Bond, and he throws Q a smile over his shoulder as he marches off towards the bathroom, tugging his pants off on the way and perhaps swaying his hips a little more than strictly necessary, providing Q with a good view of his arse. Q gives a velvety chuckle and follows him promptly.

The hot water and Q’s body pressed up against his serve to further let him relax, and he takes much enjoyment in the shower, lathering Q’s smooth skin up and pushing the wet hair out of his eyes under the hot spray while Q draws him into kisses that start a slow simmer between them; not so much demanding as _offering_ , and Bond hums, running his hands down to glide over Q’s arse as they both lazily grow interested in the proceedings.

Once they’re clean and pliant with warmth they head to the bedroom, towelled dry and not bothering to put anything on. The bed is invitingly unmade, it’s _theirs_ , and Bond smiles when Q flops back onto it with a pleased sigh and the beckons at Bond with a smile and sly green eyes. Bond gets into bed and snuggles up on top of Q, meeting him in a long, slow kiss. They’re both tired enough to make the whole affair leisurely, and pleasantly buzzed enough from a post-mission reunion for them both to already be half-hard. Q’s body is shower-warm and wonderfully familiar against his own.

Bond likes kissing Q, and he likes that Q has an appreciation for it not just as a precursor to sex but as an activity of its own. He’s also very good at it, and having someone meet his own skill makes Bond downright purr sometimes.

However right now, the mild swirl of urgency sparks between them, and Bond trails kisses along Q’s jaw, down his throat, his chest. He follows the slender but very much present muscles on his abdomen, and then spends a while lavishing, kissing and sucking the glorious, jutting hipbones that sometimes drive him to distraction. Q’s skin tastes perfect, freshly washed and tart and delectable; Bond grazes his teeth over the hipbone he’s currently loving on, eliciting a pleased hum from Q who spreads his legs to let Bond make himself comfortable between them. He takes the invitation most happily.

He nuzzles and kisses down along the sensitive inside of Q’s thigh, teasing with small licks and touches, enjoying Q’s huff of impatience and fingers clenching in the sheets. He doesn’t tease long though, just as eager as Q is. He wraps his lips around Q’s cock, sucks on the head for a moment before moving down, taking him inch by slow inch. Q’s moan lingers in the air, drawn out from deep in his throat that arches as he tilts his head back in the pillows; Bond can see it all, looking up at him through his eyelashes.

Bond prides himself on being bloody excellent at giving blow jobs, and Q’s loudly moaned pleasure always attests to that. And he _likes_ doing it, he shamelessly likes sucking Q’s cock, enjoying the responsiveness, the little sounds and the tensing and relaxing of the lithe body.

“Oh, Christ, you’re so good at this...” Q babbles, one hand grasping at sheets while the other tries to grip Bond’s short hair.

Bond very deliberately hums in agreement, earning himself a gasp and a small breathless laugh, one of Q’s legs falling open completely while the other bends at the knee.

“James... James, I’m-” Q tries to say, and Bond pulls him over the edge by sucking particularly obscenely; Q moans through his orgasm, sinking against the bed completely once it’s done.

Bond pulls off Q’s cock, leisurely licking up a few runaway drops, smirking at Q’s gasp at the over-stimulation, and props himself up on his forearms to take a smug look at his work. He does so like seeing Q like this: liquid in his post-orgasmic haze, sprawled indecently on their bed, hair mussed beyond help, eyes glazed, lips even darker than normal from all the biting he’s done. Yes, Bond can be proud of himself, and he definitely is, licking his own lips obscenely when Q cracks his eyes open to peer down at him. He gets a growl in reaction.

“Bloody bastard... come here,” Q demands, reaching out a hand, and Bond obliges. “Mmm, I missed this. Missed your mouth,” Q grins and kisses him, leisurely greedy, licking the taste of himself out of Bond’s mouth. It’s wonderfully filthy.

“I missed you too,” Bond murmurs lewdly against Q’s lips, rubbing his still hard cock against the crease of Q’s thigh.

“I can tell,” Q nips at his bottom lip and reaches down, clever fingers curling around Bond’s cock, and oh, _finally_...

Bond rests his forehead against Q’s shoulder and sets a slow but even pace thrusting into Q’s hand, occasionally mouthing kisses and licks at the collarbone. It’s unhurried, a reverse spiral that winds him down with each moment, even as he steadily pushes closer and closer towards orgasm. He’s not rushing though, he’s finally home and he’s got time, Q’s soft hums assuring him he’s right.

Q sighs contently, letting him take his time, only occasionally idly flicking his thumb over the head of Bond’s cock, letting the pre-come slick the way.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek against Bond’s hair. “Just like that...” his free hand trails down Bond’s spine, fingers skimming over the cleft in his arse, sending an interesting tingling. He shifts, the fingers disappearing, and around the edges of his consciousness (quite focused on driving into Q’s fist) Bond can hear the click of a plastic bottle, and then the fingers are back, slick and dipping into his arse, finding the ring of muscle and massaging gently.

“Oh, Christ...” Bond groans, very much approving, and _bites_ down on Q’s pectoral to show just how much he’s in favour of this idea.

“I thought you might like that,” Q chuckles breathily into his ear, his voice light with the onset of drowsiness, but he’s no less dedicated for it.

Q is ambidextrous, and there are definite sexual advantages to that.

First one, then two fingers slip into Bond, lazily fucking into him, and he gasps, speeding up his own thrusts, wonderfully torn between chasing the sensation of Q’s hand around his cock or the fingers in his arse, annoyingly brushing over his prostate without paying _quite_ the attention Q knows Bond likes. Q is a dirty, teasing minx, and Bond couldn’t be happier.

“You... ah- you little shit,” Bond growls when Q yet again infuriatingly misses his prostate altogether. “Put your back into it.”

“Mmm, why don’t _you_ put your back into it,” Q teases, and Bond laughs, because he simply has to, at this point.

(He’s never laughed in bed with anyone before, the way he can laugh with Q.)

It doesn’t take long after that; Bond speeds up his thrusting and Q takes pity on him, finally putting his fingers to _proper_ good use, and he comes, gasping and groaning out his pleasure. He sinks against Q, though not quite crushing him, and stays like that for a moment, letting everything unspool as he presses mindless kisses to the side of Q’s neck.

“Welcome home,” Q, the absolute prick, unceremoniously wipes his hands on Bond’s thighs and arse.

“Lovely,” Bond says dryly, even though they’ll obviously have to clean up anyway before the mess between them sticks.

“Mm. And you still owe me a birthday present, by the way,” Q wraps an arm around Bond’s back, keeps him like this for a while. It’s alright, Bond has no inclination to go anywhere.

“I do, don’t I,” he muses. “Though one could say-”

“No.”

“-that me coming back is a gift in itself,” he finishes with a cheeky smirk, lifting his head to look in Q’s eyes.

“That’s a gift you’re obligated to get me every time you go out on a mission. Still not a birthday gift,” Q proclaims sternly, and Bond kisses him reassuringly.

“We’ll think of something,” he murmurs against the soft lips. “Happy birthday...” he smirks and Q narrows his eyes, clearly sensing he’s about to say _something_ \- “My little Pluto.”

He gets sent to clean them both up for that.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! This was in my WIP pile for like 8 months! It also got away from me and decided to be much longer than I originally planned. I hope you enjoyed :)


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